


protected

by gingergenower



Series: the garrison [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Spoilers for 3x10, bit of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 04:45:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7670638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingergenower/pseuds/gingergenower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are whispers an assassin is targeting Aramis, but Constance is in the wrong place, and more than whispers reach her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	protected

Watching Milady, exercises in noiseless footsteps and blood, taught Constance everything she knew about assassins. Her husband knew discretion, his musketeers taught stealth, but they did not wear shadows like cloaks and smiles like daggers. Overlooking your enemy would be your last mistake.

The confidence of Aramis and the queen remained untouchable. They were loyal to the king in a way unheard of before, and they intended to make the country great before he even touched it. Musketeers usually only heard whispers of treason, three out of every four rumours disappearing into the wind as quickly as they came through. Some lingered, unpleasant smells that were only masked by the scent of freshly baked bread, but there were few that outstayed their welcome.

One of d’Artagnan’s informants revealed talks of the murder of Aramis. Without her advisor, she would be lost in the tides of French corruption, the current drowning her before she’d even try to swim.

Constance knew this was mad. Aramis arranged the counsel carefully, all the men surrounding he and Anne the most trusted to support their Spanish queen. He told them if he died tomorrow, he was quite sure he would leave the queen in a position to retain her power until it came to her son’s ascension to the throne, but the assassins did not know this, nor did they care. Three musketeers guarded Aramis and the queen day and night, but no one struck yet.

In the garrison, it was only her experience with Milady that gave Constance warning of what was to come.

La Hardye, a cadet, ushered in a woman and her son. Bent double, she was coughing, her rag clothing hanging off her body. He sat her at the bench, kneeling at her feet and talking in a low, hurried voice. Constance started down the steps to them.

“-how long have you been travelling?”

“Two weeks,” she said, coughing again.

Constance stood aside. “You need rest, madame. We can provide a bed for the night, you are not well.”

La Hardye nodded. “Shall I-?”

“Yes. See to that they have a hot meal each too.”

He scurried off. Constance wrapped her cloak around the boy, seven or eight years old, ignoring the autumn chill she shivered in herself.

“Where have you travelled from?”

“La Rochelle… we got lost…”

“You are in Paris now,” Constance said. “Shall we get you inside?”

She nodded, and Constance helped her stand. Face impassive, she noted the smooth, soft hands that met her own- not a single callous of a person who worked for every meal.

Constance’s second clue was the boy. Although hungry, he soon took a bright interest in la Hardye’s sword, asking to see it and hold it, playing in the courtyard. Constance took la Hardye aside, and mentioned her suspicions.

“I have no proof, but we should be wary,” Constance said in a low voice, the boy laughing loudly. “And if I’m right, you will do as I’ve asked, won’t you?”

La Hardye nodded, and returned to the boy, and Constance watched from the doorway while his mother slept.

“Where’s my son?”

Constance took the seat next to the bed. “Safe. We’ll watch him. You need more rest.”

“No.” The woman sat up and stood with more strength than she gave herself credit for. “I… William!”

The little boy appeared at the door. “Yes?”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “We must leave, then-”

“You would be better served staying here for a night or two. The garrison welcomes anyone in need of shelter.”

“We need to keep going, I cannot afford to stay, I need to pay a debt.”

Constance sighed. “You are ill. You need to recover before you move again. Please.”

The woman rubbed her forehead, then sank back onto the bed. “One night.”

Smiling, Constance gestured the boy carry on with la Hardye. He left quickly, without so much as a glance at his mother.

“My name is Pernelle,” she said, head in her hands.

“Constance.”

Constance’s misgivings were certain when Pernelle threw a dagger up to her throat.

In reflex, she tried to back away, but the blade followed her, and Pernelle pulled rope out of her cloak, tying her hands together. Constance tried to stand when Pernelle turned away, but Pernelle kicked backwards, and Constance crumpled back onto the chair, winded.

While Constance tried to get her breath back, Pernelle barricaded the door.

“Madame, madame!” La Hardye hammered on the door, the handle wiggling uselessly against the chest of drawers pushed up against it. “Open the door, the boy ran away!”

“Listen to me,” Pernelle said. “Your Madame d’Artagnan is unharmed. If you wish her to stay that way, I suggest you leave.”

La Hardye paused, and Constance winced at the dull thuds of his full body weight throwing itself against the door.

“If you hurt her-”

Pernelle rolled her eyes. “What will you do, boy?”

The thumping stopped, and la Hardye said nothing else. It became apparent he took Pernelle’s advice, and left.

Staring at the floor, Constance did not have the energy to be angry. “How can you anticipate that you will leave here alive?”

Pernelle quirked an eyebrow, removing Constance’s belt, with it her keys and dagger. “You were very trusting,” she said, conversationally. “I did not expect it to be this easy.”

Locking the door, she settled back on the bed opposite Constance. Constance shifted, trying to hook her finger around the rope to drag it loose, but gripping it proved too difficult. Pernelle’s stillness unnerved her, fluid in motion but statuesque out of it.

“Who was the little boy?”

“An urchin. I paid him to play along.”

Changing tactics, Constance slowly wriggled her forearms, straining against the rope to strain some give out of it.

Pernelle pointed at her elaborate knots. “You won’t escape.”

“I won’t give in, either.”

At that, Perenelle smiled, twisted, at her. “At least you aren’t a great disappointment.”

“What were you expecting?”

“The woman everyone supposes you are. The woman everyone said you are.”

Constance blinked. “I wouldn’t know how everyone talks about me.”

“It isn’t all flattering, I assure you. I spoke to many a person who thinks you don’t behave as a woman ought to, but I think we both know that thinking is foolish. Most say you’re a musketeer as much as any of the men, and your husband adores you.”

“He does.” Constance took this summation of her character with a blink and a small frown. She glanced around. Pernelle seemed quite at ease. “What are we waiting for?”

“I’m sure the moment will present itself.”

Pernelle seemed less sure of her condescending assumption an hour later. She did not fidget, merely glancing at the door with increasing frequency.

Three heavy bangs told them they weren’t alone anymore.

“Constance!”

D’Artagnan sounded breathless, helpless.

Pernelle grabbed Constance and dragged her to standing, putting the keys to the door in Constance’s hands. Dagger in one hand and knife in the other, Pernelle pressed the dagger into her throat from behind and pointed the pistol forwards.

“Open it.”

Constance managed to click the lock and the door swung open. D’Artagnan stood in the doorway, having brought a sword to this gunfight, lines worrying his face.

He ignored the barrel pointed at him, eyes skimming over Constance for injuries. “Constance, are you hurt?”

“No,” she said, and Pernelle huffed.

“Get out of my way, captain, or your wife dies.”

Not lowering his sword, d’Artagnan backed away several steps.

Keeping Constance between her and the several musketeers that gathered in the courtyard, Pernelle shifted her grip on the dagger, guiding Constance closer to her.

“Let her go,” d’Artagnan said, his eyes not leaving the dagger. “No one will follow you. I swear on her life.”

“Her life is not much to gamble with,” Pernelle said, nodding at the dagger pressed to Constance’s throat.

D’Artagnan flinched. “Her life is everything.”

Pernelle did not seem to quite know what to say, and so she scoffed. “Sentiment is nothing to me. She will leave with me. I will let her go when I am gone from Paris.”

“No.” He seemed beyond emotion, voice flat and unmoving. “She won’t leave my sight.”

“Captain, you don’t seem to understand what is happening here-”

“No, it is you who doesn’t understand,” Constance said through gritted teeth, struggling against her ropes. “Your partner isn’t coming.”

She only regretted it because d’Artagnan’s face drained of blood, he looked like she’d punched him in the stomach. Pernelle stopped edging aside.

“You thought I was easy to overpower, but the truth is I made you the moment you shook my hand. I told la Hardye if you did anything to me it would be a distraction for d’Artagnan, and he was to stay with Aramis no matter what you said you would do to me.”

“You should not have done that,” d’Artagnan breathed. “Aramis-”

“Is safe.”

Pernelle slumped a little, her aim wavering from d’Artagnan- Constance grabbed the dagger and yanked down, twisting out of her grip. Her gun shot wildly, but a musketeer had already thrown the barrel upwards, yanking it out her hand. The dagger clattered to the floor, and another helped wrestle Pernelle to the floor.

A hand dragged Constance away and sliced the rope away, falling to their feet. D’Artagnan cupped her face, kissing her forehead. “Are you well?”

“I’m fine.”

“Never-”

“You would have done what I forced you to do if it were Porthos or Aramis.”

“You’re not them.”

Constance swallowed. “I was protecting the queen, too.”

“I thought… I thought the danger was over, and then la Hardye turns to me and says you’re being held hostage-”

“I’m sorry.”

He kissed her again, lips lingering as though she weren’t quite real. “I need to escort her to the Bastille.”

Constance smoothed his jacket. “See you soon.”

Nodding, they both knew it was a promise.


End file.
